


The Art of Espionage

by whipperschnapper



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: JeanMarco Gift Exchange, JeanMarcoGiftExchange2018, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-26 02:19:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17133200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whipperschnapper/pseuds/whipperschnapper
Summary: My gift for @Pilindiel! I hope you enjoy reading as much as I loved writing!





	The Art of Espionage

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pilindiel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pilindiel/gifts).



The worst part was the smell of it all.

It twisted in the air like a bad dream, like…like something meant to haunt him the rest of his days. Like the bad taste after inhaling perfume, or drinking orange juice after brushing his teeth.

Impossibly, it smelled just like Marco had.

And even more impossible, Marco was there.

“ _Kirchstein_!” the voice buzzed in his right ear, warping and popping where the microphone peaked. That hurt. “ _Get your fucking head in or a lot of people are going to die because of you!_ ”

A lot of people are going to die? A lot of people did die. Marco died because of him. But that was a long time ago. He should be over it by now.

He wasn’t, but he’d gotten in with these guys for being such a good liar. Lying was his job now.

He noticed a metallic _ka-clink_! before he really registered what it meant, but years of practice taught him how to analyze and react at the same time. The wall where he’d just been standing exploded with bullets a split second after he dove away, melting into the shadows once more.

“ _KIRCHSTEIN_!”

“Jesus-fuck, I hear you!” he hissed into the microphone at his collar. “We’re getting railed on out here!”

 _“I can see that, smartass. Don’t forget I’m in there with you right now._ ”

Jean rolled his eyes. Armin was here in the same way a role player was in a dungeon with their DnD character. “Oh, yeah?” He turned to the nearest surveillance and made a nasty gesture. To the naked eye he was nothing more than a shadow, but to night vision he was a beacon of vulgar glory. “Gonna punch me for that one?”

“ _Do it again and I’ll trip the alarm and all of you will find your asses in prison. But seriously_ ,” he paused a moment for Jean to cock, aim, and fire. Down the hall, someone cried out and hit the ground. “ _There’s something up ahead. An empty room._ ”

 _An empty room_. If it were really an empty room, Armin wouldn’t have said anything. When he pointed out an “empty room” it meant it only _appeared_ empty. There was something in there, something which wanted to remain hidden.

“Can you get me a window?” Jean murmured. The holy grail could be behind that door and he still wouldn’t dive into gunfire for it. There was a dark chuckle on the other end; Jean could imagine Armin cracking his knuckles right about now.

“ _I may have an ace or two up my sleeve_.”

* * *

 

An ace was all he needed. The art of espionage was just a matter of practice, timing, and luck.

He’d practiced for this.

Timed for this.

Now all he needed was a little help from Lady Luck.

This gala was getting nowhere. Already he’d been forced to dance with two chinless girls because that’s what nobles did. He had to eat shitty _hors devours_ , talk about politics he really couldn’t care less about, all while avoiding the champagne. Damn light weight.

At least the suit was nice. He loved suits, especially when they were tailored specifically for him. Too bad this one wouldn’t last the night. He quite enjoyed the medallions, the regale of royals. No wonder they took such pride in what they wore; anyone would feel like a king in _this_.

He grinned, eyes scanning the room only to land upon an all-too-familiar head of ashen hair. He’d seen those tawny curls before, though he couldn’t quite remember where. He did know, however, that just looking at them ignited a flame of hurt in his chest.

Whoever this Jean Kirchstein was, he deserved to die.

* * *

 

“ _Close your eyes_.”

Jean did as he was told for the first time in his life. Still the impression from the flash left dots in his eyes. But he could _see_.

There had to be at least seven people ahead of him, all stumbling and yelling where a camera flash had blinded them just seconds ago. One lunged for Jean as he tried to leap through, but miscalculated and bulldozed into one of his fellow goons instead. Another tried to pull a gun, but cried out when he was met with a crack to the neck before falling unconscious to the marbled floor.

Jean swept for the gun, couldn’t help grinning as he shoved through the door, and slammed it closed behind him.

The grin wiped clean from his face when a figure dove in from the darkness, and he was served a sharp knuckle to the face.

“Fuck!”

“ _Jean_?” Armin’s voice went ignored as he often did. He could respond later.

Another fist came down on Jean from the other side, but when he tried to deliver a punch of his own, he only met air. His other fist held tight to the gun, his arm stiff at his side.

“ _Jean what’s going on? I can’t see anything!_ ”

 _Me-fucking-neither_. Now was not the time to respond. He’d give himself away in a situation where he was already a sitting duck.

Jean’s hand crept across the wall, searching for a switch somewhere, anywhere.

“You know, I thought this would be harder. I’m a little disappointed.”

The voice made him freeze. It came from his right, but something in his gut told him if he looked that way he’d be assaulted from the left. The room had a slight echo; it threw him off.

No more than the sound of that voice did, however. It was so familiar.

“I’d heard so much about you and the corps. ‘Hardest spies to kill.’ Someone actually used that to describe you. ‘Hardest spies to kill.’” The voice chuckled, a bitter taste to their words. “Though, to his credit, that informant had always been a bit of a moron.”

The voice laughed outright, as if remembering something.

Jean said nothing, controlling his breathing so as to conceal his whereabouts. He doubted it mattered much at this point, but old habits die hard.

Still, his hand crept up the wall.

“If you’re looking for a light switch, it’s on your other side.”

Jean froze. As far as he could tell, this voice was to be believed—there wasn’t a switch anywhere that he could find—but there wasn’t a real reason for them to make this easy for him. Unless, they were toying with him, which wasn’t doubtful.

The voice chuckled again, and the hairs at the back of Jean’s neck stood on end.

“ _You’re a great liar, Jean Kirchstein, but I can always tell when you’re scared_ ,” a ghostly voice said somewhere in his memories, and he felt the whisper of fingertips tracing up the length of his bare arm, between his shoulder blades.

He felt an illusory pair of lips ghost the base of his neck, at the back where the vertebrae protruded, and his spine stiffened.

“ _You can lie all you want, but I know you_ ,” Marco had whispered into his skin. “ _Be scared with me_.”

The present voice laughed, and there was a shuffle of fabric in the dark, then the flicker of light as Jean was brought back to reality.

His hand tightened on the borrowed gun. His right arm lifted at the same time the click of the switch filled the room, and he glared with all he was worth.

Marco stared back, grinning despite the barrel poked right at his nose.

Jean jolted so hard he nearly dropped the gun. His right hand wasn’t his dominant to begin with, slipped focus would do him no good right now.

Still, Marco stared, a spider web scar at his left temple crinkling where his smiley eyes fixed upon Jean.

“Oh, no, they sent a handsome one,” Marco sighed. “Why is it always the handsome ones? The least they could send is a girl, make it a little easier on me.”

Jean’s throat closed up, but his gun still followed as Marco pushed away from the wall in one lithe movement. He was still so graceful.

“ _Jean, who is that?! I can hear someone!_ ”

He yanked the cord from his ear so it was no more than a faint buzzing at his shoulder, and gave Marco his full attention.

“You know, this whole playful banter thing is only fun if you play along,” Marco purred, turning his back and glancing once over his shoulder, that sultry grin still curling his handsome features. His arms swung back once, almost like he was going to clasp his hands behind him, but Jean caught the faint wince, the change of course while it was there. Marco clasped both hands before him instead, spinning on his heel with his steepled index fingers pressed to his lips.

 _Bad arm, bad shoulder_ , Jean thought. _He’s been hurt._

Marco groaned and slapped his hands at his sides. “Oh, would you put the gun down? You’re ruining such a beautiful atmosphere! Do you know how long it took me to infiltrate the place?” He huffed, blowing a stray bit of hair from his forehead. “At least let me enjoy it, Mr. Kirchstein.”

 _Mr. Kirchstein_.

_So nice to be working with you, Mr. Kirchstein._

_Is it pronounced ‘Keersch-tein’ or ‘Kirch-stein’? I’m afraid I’ve heard both._

The sound of it hit Jean so hard he dropped the gun, and it hit at such an angle it didn’t even bounce.

Marco stared, looking surprised his order had been followed so easily, before laughing.

He had the same laugh.

“Oh, my dear, this is going to be fun.”

_It’s ‘Kirch-stein’. But you can call me Jean._

He scarcely had time to react before something cracked into the side of his head, and the world fizzled out.

“You are an odd one, Mr. Kirchstein. Or, do you prefer _Agent_ Kirchstein?”

_I prefer ‘Jean’._

“Have we met before?”

Jean had to push the voice from his head to focus. Where was he? Where were the others? Why couldn’t he hear Armin anymore?

Something hit him again, he vaguely registered the feeling of a shoe in his gut, and he cried out.

“See, I recognize something about you. Were you a model at some point? A policeman?” Marco gasped somewhere, and Jean grunted when a hand took him by the hair and yanked his head back.

Marco smiled down at him, eyes a little blank as two fingers came up to graze that scar on his face.

“You didn’t give me this, did you?”

Jean only stared at him. He couldn’t find words.

Marco’s eyes seemed to search him, looking for something Jean wasn’t telling, before he sighed and let him drop. The hand in Jean’s hair let up and Marco stepped away.

“For an agent, you’re awfully quiet. Aren’t you the ones who storm in talking to your earpieces, making orders? That’s you guys, isn’t it?” Marco squatted beside Jean, head tilting to get a better look at him. “You see, I’ll let you in on a little secret.” Marco tapped the scar at the side of his head, wincing where it was still tender. “Got this from a gun. Don’t ask me which one, I couldn’t tell you, and it fucked up my memory. Fucked up some other things, too, but it’s mostly that. They told me it’s a wonder I didn’t die, that I can still talk.”

The muscles in Marco’s arm bulged when he grabbed Jean by the scruff and lifted him. The strain was there, but it was so apparent as anger, betrayal.

“I don’t remember a bit of you, Jean Kirchstein, but when I look at you, I can’t help feeling that I know something you’re not telling. That you are somehow tied to this.” He gestured to his face.

_He’s killed people. He killed a prince, and your friends. He’s going to kill you if you don’t snap out of it._

“Please tell me how I know you, Mr. Kirchstein.”

Jean looked into his eyes. There was something different about the one on the left, next to the scarred temple. It had a faint cast, almost milky. Partial blindness?

_Bum shoulder, blind in one eye, and if this really is Marco, he’s got one hell of a kick._

Marco scoffed and let Jean drop. Not a second passed before his boot met Jean’s sternum with a sharp crack and a rush of air leaving Jean’s lungs.

_Yeah. That’s him._

He tried to push to standing, but all that left Jean was a low wheeze. He groaned, hoping it would make breathing easier, only it didn’t.

Somewhere behind him, Marco sighed again.

Jean could only stare at the polished marble floor, wiping his mouth where he tasted blood.

 _Bum shoulder, blind eye, killer kick_.

There was something else.

“M-Marco,” Jean heaved. Holy shit his ribs ached. Something was broken.

“So you do speak!” Marco laughed. He was lit from behind by the floor-to-ceiling windows, the lights of the night-time city behind him. He was gorgeous that way. “And what a lovely voice! Do you sing?”

_Do you sing?_

_Only on special occasions._

_And what denotes a special occasion to you, Mr. Kirchstein?_

Jean didn’t answer, at least, not the way Marco was wanting. He slowly stumbled to his feet, wobbling slightly when his injured ribs stole his breath away. He had to lean against the wall for support.

“I shot you.”

The words rang out the same way a gunshot would have. Fast. Loud. Startling them both.

Jean said it again. “I shot you.”

Marco stared for a moment, expression going dark. “I heard you the first time, Mr. Kirchstein.”

Jean huffed, breathing shallow. “I shot you, Marco. You’re blind because of me. I dislocated your shoulder. I took your memories.” Jean wetted his lips. “I shot you.”

He could see where his words took something from Marco. The way his back curved slightly forward, and his weight shifted from one hip to the other.

Marco smiled again, only there was something different from all the other smiles he’d offered tonight. This one wasn’t toying like the other, it lacked the smugness from before.

To Jean, it looked more like a display of teeth.

“And why would you do something like that, Mr. Kirchstein?”

Jean tried for easier breathing, slower breaths, but nothing seemed to work. His vision was dotted with black spots. He tried to blink them away, but they were only pushed to his peripherals.

“Because I love you, Marco.” There was a beat, a long stretch of silence so potent even the world outside seemed to be holding its breath.

It was shattered by a harsh bout of laughter.

It echoed off the walls, Marco’s own bitterness hitting Jean once, twice, three times.

“Where did you learn that shooting a man in the head is a good way to show him you love him?”

“When it saves his life.” Jean tried for one step forward, then another. He put a hand over his side where his lung was pierced with a sharp pain, but he could ignore it for now. “You don’t remember, but I saved you, Marco. We were ambushed, and I saved you.”

Marco blinked at him, head tilting as he side-stepped, keeping the distance between them the same. A slow dance of questions.

“The other’s, the Titans, they were going to torture us for answers. They had you, and I snuck in. They got me instead. They fucked up my leg.”

Marco’s eyes went down to Jean’s right knee, where he had an almost imperceptible limp to his step. Marco said nothing.

“We used to work together. We were roommates.”

Marco stared. “Where am I from?” he asked. His tone suggested he was quizzing him, but Jean tasted the real question. _Where do I come from, Jean? Where do I belong?_

“You were raised in Belgium, but no one knows where you came from. You were in an orphanage there. I once told you I think you’re a mix. Maybe Egyptian and something else. And you’re tall so maybe some Dutch.”

Marco had this dazed look. His eyes were swimming, unfocused, but clear. He wasn’t crying. He took a step back, and Jean a step forward.

“You came to work for the corps because you were a witness to an explosion near the orphanage. You were fourteen, but we didn’t meet until you were twenty-two and I was twenty. We hated each other at first.”

Jean hissed, stumbled, but righted himself. He could do this. He could talk Marco back. He just needed to focus.

Marco wasn’t looking at him. He wasn’t looking at anything that Jean could see. “Why?”

Jean smiled. “Because you’re a polyglot, Marco. You were fluent in almost seven languages before your sixteenth birthday. I was so jealous because I only knew two by then.”

Marco had stopped moving. He stood, slouched, swaying slightly, his head inclined forward like the floor would give him all the answers and not Jean. “Which languages?”

“English, French, Spanish, German, Russian, Afrikaans, and Latin.”

“Which languages do you know?”

“English, Latin, and Portugese.”

He hoped Marco was remembering the right things. Like the time they had survived an entire conversation with Marco speaking Latin and Jean stumbling through his faulty Spanish. Or when they had to pretend to be two bickering passengers on a flight, only Jean had to pretend he was some know-nothing American, and Marco was the German exchange student he had to sit beside (the whole flight ended with the two of them making out in the bathroom, and Jean remembered the moan of relief when he opened his mouth to nibble Marco’s shoulder, and his ears popped instead.)

But the present Marco was harder to read. His eyes moved in a way that suggested he was reading something, or scoping an invisible scene. What was he seeing now?

Jean took another step toward him, and it was a mistake. “You tried to teach me French, but it was a lost cause, even you said so.”

Marco leapt and his fist struck out, cracking Jean in the face.

Jean yelped, crumpled, and for a moment he almost expected Marco to apologize and help him, but the other only stood there, unsure what to do.

Jean kept going.

“You’re right-handed, but your best punches used to come from your left side.”

“Stop.”

“You only punch right-handed because I dislocated your shoulder three years ago when we were sparring. It was a pinched nerve, but it never healed right.”

“Stop it. Stop talking.”

“You paid me back by putting flour in my hair dryer, but it backfired because the thing almost burned down the barracks.”

“I said stop!”

Another punch clipped the underside of Jean’s chin and he bit his tongue. When he fell the second time, a heel slammed down on his knee, assuring he stayed down.

Jean screamed, and it killed his lungs.

“I don’t know you,” Marco said. “I don’t speak German, o-or have a pinched nerve, and I’ve never been on a plane!”

There was something in his voice, a young boy somewhere, who knew he wasn’t telling the truth.

So Jean wouldn’t stop. He’d answer that boy always. He’d always let him know that his place was with him, somewhere safe.

“You have this weird fascination with small American towns. You wanted to get away from the cities and just drive all night long because the stars are so much clearer out in bum-fuck nowhere. You wanted to go to Wyoming.”

“Shut up!”

“You wanted me to go with you—”

“No! I-I don’t know you!”

“But I know you! You hate silent films because you can’t fall asleep to them, but you love soundtracks because you don’t have to watch a movie to know _exactly_ what’s happening.” In a last-ditch attempt to keep lucid, Jean caught Marco’s wrist mere centimeters before it could bash into his face and most likely shove his nose into his brain. He wheezed at the pressure it put on his lungs, but tried to speak. “You’re scared to learn the piano because you don’t think you’d be good enough at it, but you come up with chords in the shower and write them down in case you forget.”

“ _Stop talking about me_!”

He went at Jean with his hands, ripping his hand free and latching onto Jean’s throat. He let his thumbs press the ridges of Jean’s esophagus until the other was red in the face and writhing beneath him.

Jean’s heartbeat was in his head. He felt his ears might pop any second now, but he could only stare at Marco as tears built in his eyes. He could convince himself they were from the lack of air.

“Marco,” Jean choked. The word, the name, was almost lost. “I’m sorry.”

_“Shut up, Jean!”_

It struck them both like lightning. The name. Jean’s name, only there was weight behind it. The way Marco said it tied them both to the spot.

Marco stared down at Jean, and Jean up at Marco. The prince and the spy, both trying their hand at the art of espionage and failing miserably.

Both leapt when something hit into the door, and Marco finally let up his hold on Jean’s throat. Jean was allowed no room to breathe however, when Marco’s hand slapped over his mouth, and he was shushed.

That same force hit into the door again, voices behind it, and the frame started to buckle.

Marco used his brain, the parts which hadn’t been injured because of Jean, and swept for the gun left where Jean had dropped it two feet away. His eyes were on Jean the whole time as he aimed and fired.

One of the glorious windows behind Jean shattered, spider-webbed the same way Marco’s temple had, before the whole panel crumpled. Marco tossed the gun out with it.

“He’s moving!” a voice behind the door bellowed. “Get in there!”

_“Don’t leave, Marco.”_

Marco stared out over the city. The wind caught his hair, and he finally looked back at Jean, grabbed him by the arm and bodily drug him into the darkness the dim light could not reach.

They waited together.

And waited.

The door finally came down, and men and women in armored gear and guns spilled into the room. Someone swore, and Marco took the opportunity to touch a panel to his left, wincing where his nerve was pinched. The panel went in, and a secret door latched open silently. He melted inside, taking Jean right along with him.

They stayed in the servants’ corridor for a moment, Jean trying not to breathe too loud and failing. The spots on his vision were growing, and a roar was building behind his ears.

He didn’t realize he was sliding, falling, until a familiar set of arms caught him, and his legs were suddenly in the air. Jean’s head swam with pain and heartbreak.

They were moving, that’s all he could tell.

That, and the corridor smelled just like Marco.

* * *

 

He awoke in an unfamiliar room, in an unfamiliar bed, but smelling a familiar smell and feeling like he’d been hit by a bus.

He didn’t know the place, but he could piece it together. The ugly drapes, the gritty carpet. The way his comforter seemed to bind him to the bed.

Some shitty motel.

He wasn’t sure how someone could smell like dirt and still be attractive. That’s what Marco was. Dirt and cologne. Earthy, spiced, subtle.

“You told me a lot about myself,” a sad voice said from the other side of the room.

Jean blinked in that direction, and was unsurprised that even in an old t-shirt and running pants, Marco was princely. He had the squared shoulders, the dancer’s poise. He was too good for the hand he was dealt.

Marco nursed a coffee, with a spoonful of hazelnut creamer and three sugar cubes, if Jean’s memory was as it should be. He didn’t look up from his mug, but Jean knew he was speaking to him. There was no one else in the room.

“But you didn’t say anything about you other than that you’re jealous of me.”

The room fell silent for a moment, Jean sinking back into his pillows. “Was.”

Marco flinched, and finally trained his gaze on Jean. “What?”

Jean swallowed. He had a bad taste in his mouth which suggested he’d been asleep for a long time. “I was jealous of you. Past tense.” He swallowed again, wishing for some water. “But not anymore.”

Something bitter permeated Marco’s tone. “Because you got back at me.” It wasn’t a question.

Jean knew that’s where this would go, but it wasn’t true. “Not at all. I just stopped caring. I stopped seeing you as competition and saw you as a partner.”

Marco took in the word, tasted it with his morning brew. His chair groaned as he leaned back, thinking.

“Partner…” he mused.

The air went silent again, and Jean took a moment to look around again. He wasn’t in the same clothes from last night—or, a few nights ago?—but he felt better. A little better. The curtains were drawn, and the digital clock on the nightstand was no indicator of whether it was three in the morning or three in the afternoon. Marco drinking coffee was no help, either.

He was staring at the needle in his arm, the I.V. drip fashioned from an old wire hanger at his side, when Marco finally spoke again.

“So, what now, partner?”

Jean’s head turned to look at him.

Marco shrugged. “We’re both out of the job.”

Jean looked at him another moment, then down at his hands. He was still dirty. There was residual gunpowder under his nails, and a spot of blood on the back of his thumb from wiping it off his mouth. Maybe that’s what the bad taste was from.

“I think I should ask your forgiveness before anything else,” Jean admitted.

The room fell silent again, only there was no tension the way Jean had been expecting. Marco only stared at him from over his mug.

Then, Marco stood and crossed the room. He hesitated, almost as if asking permission with his eyes, before sitting at the foot of the bed with his mug between his knees.

“Don’t ask,” he murmured. “Just take it. And I’ll take yours as leverage. We don’t have time to feel bad for being bad people to each other right now. We need a plan.”

Jean stared up at him. He was so different from the other night, yet so the same. He still looked lost, sad from more truths he no-doubt found out for himself. Yet another, small part seemed almost…at peace? Relaxed.

He looked tired, too. It was no doubt he wouldn’t be sleeping if Jean was in a coma.

“Maybe we should rest a bit. At least, you should. You look like shit.”

Marco chuckled into his drink, taking one final pull before setting the empty mug on the floor. “You should look in the mirror, darling.”

Jean trusted Marco not to be dramatic. At least, not now. Now was a time for a level head.

“Then we both should. Together.”

Marco’s back went straight.

 _Together_.

The word jumped through his head, clattered with the still-missing parts of his memory. _Together with Jean_.

A well of tears swelled against his lashes, and he sucked in a breath.

“Jean, I. I’m so sorry this happened,” Marco sighed, and the tears slid down his cheeks. “I know we agreed not to be, but I need you to know I don’t want to hurt you like that again. I won’t.”

Jean felt inclined to reach out and touch him, but his ribs wouldn’t let him. “I know, Marco. I trust you.”

Marco’s eyes met his again, teary and oh, so desperate for something to latch onto. “Yeah?”

Jean nodded, lifting his arms in silent offering. “Yeah.”

Those arms made Marco flinch, scared him for a second, before his back hunched and he sobbed again, leaning forward so that Jean could touch him and he could feel it.

He tasted salt mostly, but also bad breath and coffee when he finally kissed Jean, ran his fingers through his hair, touched the base of Jean’s neck where the vertebrae stuck out.

Jean kissed as much as he could with broken ribs and an I.V. in his arm, his dirty fingers tracing the planes of Marco’s face, the turn of his jaw, the small of his back.

“How does Wyoming sound?” Jean asked around kisses. “Let’s take a plane to Wyoming and just drive.”

He memorized the way it felt to have Marco smile against his lips, to taste old blood and new coffee.

And they fell asleep until seven—at night, Jean discovered, though he wasn’t sure if they’d slept four hours or sixteen—before boarding a plane and leaving for the heavy blanket of stars awaiting them.


End file.
